


Rekindled

by eyeronicmuch



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: M/M, Strangers to Lovers, This was written at 3AM, model!Sicheng, painter!yuta, tiny bit of fluff, uhh, yuwin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-29 23:23:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16274498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeronicmuch/pseuds/eyeronicmuch
Summary: rekindle(riːˈkɪnd(ə)l)verb•relight (a fire).•revive (something lost or lapsed).or alternatively, Yuta’s love for art gets reignited one autumn night.





	Rekindled

**Author's Note:**

> in honour of yuwin month!

Midnight. The time when the chilly September air is a bit colder, when the usually hectic streets are a bit emptier, when you feel a bit lonelier. Yuta walks around aimlessly, hands in his pockets and eyes cast down, thinking about this and that. Breathing in the fresh smell of air relaxed his constantly tired mind, even if it was only for a little bit. The pitch-black sky is lit up by artificial stars – city lights – brightening up the neighbourhood. Besides the occasional honking of cars and groups of teenager passerby’s blasting music out of their speakers the atmosphere was eerily quiet. 

A couple of blocks down Yuta comes across a secluded art shop. The sign on its red door states that it’s closed. It looks old, worn out, but something about it gives off a cozy, welcoming feeling. It looks plain, doesn’t stand out among the other shops on the avenue, but something catches Yuta’s eyes. A painting. His own painting. As a matter of fact, some of these paintings on display are his. Yuta stops in his tracks. A flurry of emotions hit him out of nowhere, a sense a nostalgia bubbles up in his chest and he cracks a small smile, remembering the time he spent drawing, painting, which seemed to him like it was an eternity ago. 

Yuta looks through the semi-clear glass at the paintings hanging on the wall. The one in the corner is an oil landscape of a sandy beach and the calm sea at sunrise. The one next to it is a painting of a park near the Eiffel tower. Yuta has never been to Paris. Another one is of cherry blossoms which Yuta painted back in Osaka. The last painting Yuta recognises is the biggest painting of them all. A rather blurry, smudgy-looking mess, with combinations of bright colours which now are dulled because of the dark, resembling a figure of a person. Yuta hasn’t finished it, and he never will. The portrait doesn’t fit in with the serene landscapes, but it was Yuta’s favourite creation at some point. 

Forgotten and suppressed memories slowly resurface to the top, but Yuta pays them no attention and just stares. At how the waves are too blue, how the cherry blossoms are too pale for his liking, at the portrait. It’s a scene of a faceless man. The painting is full of thick layers of oil on oil, of heaps of emotions, reminding Yuta how much he loved painting, of how much he loved. 

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” a deep voice rhetorically asks, startling the former artist. The one who intruded his inner peace is a man, a bit taller than Yuta, dressed in a brown trench coat. The stranger appeared out of nowhere, or has he been standing next to Yuta for a while now? Yuta doesn’t know.

“I guess,” he replies, a bit embarrassed. It has been a while since he’s received compliments from someone. The stranger doesn’t reply. A minute passes in silence, until he speaks up again. “Um, weird question, but the way you’re analysing the paintings is different from just admiring them. Do you perhaps paint?”

The question is sudden, abrupt, but Yuta half-expected it. “I used to.”

“I see,” the man hums. More silence. “Why’d you stop?” He’s looking at the portrait, and Yuta is looking at him. The stranger’s features are striking: cat-like eyes, strong brows, smooth nose, plump lips. The side of his face is illuminated by the moonlight giving it an iridescent glow, making the stranger look ethereal, unnaturally beautiful, and if it were the Yuta from years ago, he’d have a strong urge to draw him. 

“Art is storytelling. I have nothing to tell,” is what Yuta answers. The stranger nods silently. “My biggest inspiration, my muse, disappeared, and then work piled up, so there’s that too.” 

“It’s a shame, though,” the man speaks up. “I’m sure you were a good artist.”

“I’m not one to judge.” And they fall into a whirl of mutual but comfortable silence again.

Soon the coldness of the night creeps up Yuta’s back, and not even his warm pockets could save him from the numbness in his fingers. Sniffling a bit, the artist averts his gaze from the shop and turns to the stranger, debating whether to say goodbyes to him or not. In the end, he settles for “I’m going to go now.” The other man nods and extends his hand. “I’m Sicheng.” 

“Yuta,” the artist says, shaking the strangers – Sicheng’s – hand. It’s warm, in contrast to his own icy palm. 

Yuta bows politely, taking one last look at his lonely paintings, and walks back home.

 

-

 

It’s midday when Yuta sees Sicheng again. The artist is on a stroll around town again, maybe in search of inspiration, maybe not. His feet involuntarily take him to back to the now familiar art shop. Through the glass everything remains the same, only the dull paintings are now bright and vivid under the sun rays. A golden bell chimes, signalling someone walking out of the store. A long brown trench coat holding a wrapped-up painting comes into view. 

“Hello,” Sicheng greets, smiling kindly. 

“Good afternoon. Which painting did you buy?” Yuta asks, curious.

“Oh, the one with the cherry blossoms.” 

“Good choice,” Yuta approves, “it was one of my favourites.”

“Was?” Sicheng questions, eyes widening slightly. “Wait, was it you who painted this?” 

Yuta hums, “Yeah, years ago. I’m glad you liked it enough to buy it.”

“Oh my god, it’s absolutely beautiful!” The stranger exclaims, surprise and awe reflect on his face. “You’re really talented.” 

“Thank you,” Yuta says sincerely.

“How did your paintings end up on sale in some antique store?”

The stranger comes closer to Yuta, gesturing for the artist to walk with him and Yuta doesn’t protest. They fall into a synchronised step, Sicheng’s initially wide steps shorten to match Yuta’s peaceful pace. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I had to sell most of my paintings to make ends meet. I hope they will end up in good hands.”

“Well this one certainly is,” Sicheng comments, flashing a blinding smile mostly to himself. Yuta is glad. 

The pair walks down the street making small talk. The autumn breeze weaves past them, leaving fallen leaves underneath their feet. The sun hides shyly behind the growing clouds, only occasionally a stray ray of sunlight peaks out from them and then disappears again. Time flies slowly at this time of the month, and there’s no rush either. Sicheng invites Yuta inside a quaint café for coffee, his treat, and the latter agrees. 

A strong but pleasant aroma of coffee greets Yuta, welcoming him, throwing him in a trance and completing the autumn aesthetic. Sicheng sits by a table near the window, putting his newly bought painting on the ground and Yuta sits across from him. Soft jazz music sways in the background, loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to disrupt conversations. “This is a really nice place,” Yuta comments, flipping slowly through the menu, “do you come here often?”

“Sometimes,” Sicheng answers, grinning. “The coffee is good.” 

“I see,” Yuta hums. A latte and a slice of cake later he asks, “What about you, what do you do for a living?”

“Oh,” Sicheng puts his half empty cappuccino down. “I model, sometimes.” 

“Not surprising.” Yuta states and a faint shade of pink blossoms on Sicheng’s cheeks, much like the sakura in the painting he bought. 

 

-

 

Over the week work and responsibilities have consumed Yuta entirely, making him nearly forget about the sweet stranger in the trench coat, that is until Yuta notices him on the cover of a magazine in the supermarket. “Huh,” the artist’s lips quirk upwards. “He didn’t tell me he’s well known.”

Yuta buys the magazine.

 

-

 

A couple of days later, when Yuta is strolling through the city on his day off, he waltzes into the café he’s been with Sicheng before. He expects, hopes, for the model to be there, and he’s right. Sicheng is sitting at the same table, looking out of the window with a cup of coffee beside his notebook. The model is wearing a black turtleneck, golden circular-framed glasses are perched on his nose, his trench coat is draped over his shoulders. The scene reminds Yuta of a retro movie. 

Yuta opted for bergamot tea this time. “Can I sit with you?” he asks shyly instead of a greeting. 

“Wouldn’t want it any other way,” Sicheng replies, smiling cheekily, showing his dimple. It’s warm. By far warmer than Yuta’s tea. Gratefully, the artist sits down across Sicheng, like last time. The model slides over a notebook over to him. “I got something for you.”

“Oh?” Yuta takes the A5 notebook carefully and examines it. It’s got a hard leather cover weaved with gold, it’s nice to the touch. Yuta flips it open and slide his fingers across the blank pages. “What’s the occasion?” 

“For… sketches,” Sicheng drags out, watching Yuta’s reaction. The artist’s brows furrow in confusion. 

“Sketches? I don’t draw anymore, Sicheng,” he hands the notebook back to the former, apologizing, “I’m sorry, I’m really thankful for the gift, but-”

“Hold on, Yuta,” Sicheng stops him, putting his hand over the artist’s. Yuta tries to ignore the fluttering feeling in his stomach that sprouted because of the gesture. “I’ve thought about what you said, that you have nothing to tell. But you’re wrong. There’s always something to say, it’s a matter of will and determination. And art is a way of storytelling, but that’s not the only definition. You know that. Don’t refuse so blatantly,” the model pleads, “You like drawing, right? I know you do, so please reconsider. You are a wonderful artist- and inspiration can be found again.”

“I-I don’t know.” Yuta confesses, not shrugging off Sicheng’s palm. “I haven’t touched a pencil, even more a paintbrush, in months, years. My skills are quite rusty…”

“Skill cannot be lost,” the model reassures. “Just try out slow. Okay? Maybe you’ll learn to love to draw again.”

“Okay, I’ll draw for you,” Yuta sighs in defeat, drumming his fingers with his right hand.

“No,” Sicheng corrects, “don’t draw for me, draw for yourself.”

As Sicheng’s words sink into Yuta’s brain something inside him shifts, something akin to a dying flame being reignited, and it feels like the world obtained its vivid colours, and the artist suddenly got a huge urge to convey how he sees the world, its brightness, dullness, it’s beauty and ugliness, to express his emotions, to _draw._

It’s a small flame, but it’s burning.

 

-

 

It takes quite some time, but slowly the sketchbook gets filled up with various sketches of random objects, animals, nature. Nothing big, but it’s humongous progress, all thanks to Sicheng’s persuasion and words of encouragement. The model was by Yuta’s side whenever he was free, eager to see Yuta’s doodles and supported him in every possible way. They met up most of the times in the café, sometimes went to each other’s apartments, sometimes met each other accidentally in supermarkets, malls – either way they saw each other often.

Right now, the pair occupied their usual table at the café. Sicheng spoke and Yuta sketched. Listening to Sicheng ramble on about his fashion shows, the places where he went for podiums and runways, the way his hands clasped and unclasped, how his eyes always lit up and the way he smiles softly- they made Yuta look up from his sketchbook and steal so many glances, the moments could be engraved on the back of his eyelids. Instead, Yuta did what he could do best. He drew Sicheng, over and over, capturing the seconds of the model’s blinding smile, from life, from memory, and the model is completely unaware.

It started out as simple head shots, then evolved into something more detailed, grander. A pile of scattered pencils lies in a chaotic mess on the table. Yuta sits back, applying light strokes on the paper whilst Sicheng is musing about London. “The weather is so gloomy,” he says. Yuta hums. “It’s perfect for trench coats.” And Yuta cracks a smile, colouring in the sheet. 

“What are you drawing?” the model asks, his elbows on the table. 

“You.”

Sicheng’s glasses slide off a little bit. “Me? Why?”

“I like capturing moments. Like a handmade photograph,” Yuta reasons, “and you’re really pretty.”

“C-can I see?” Sicheng sputters, his tips of the ears red. He tries to to lean over the table to have a glimpse of Yuta’s sketchbook, but the latter closes it.

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Okay, fine,” the model huffs, “will you show them to me someday?”

“Definitely.”

 

-

 

It’s only a month later, when the clouds in the November sky and dark and heavy, when it’s about to snow, does Yuta touch a paintbrush. The feeling of the polished wood against his palm feels so familiar yet so foreign, Yuta likes it. Earlier, Sicheng stopped by his place with canvases and oil paints, as if Yuta’s closet wasn’t filled with those already, long forgotten. Even so, Yuta appreciated the gesture and invited the model for tea, but Sicheng declined, saying he had to run to work and that he’ll come back later. 

And so the artist sits in front of the easel, alone. The empty canvas stares at him, mockingly. Yuta hesitantly squeezes black onto the palette, then squeezes out red and titanium white. The painter dips the paintbrush into the colours, mixing them, and paints. Unsure, unsteady strokes turn more confident, prominent. Hues of greys fill the canvas, and Yuta sinks in the familiarity and the nostalgia of the painting process.

The strong smell of oil soon invades the whole room, and even sooner the ecstasy kicks in and Yuta is so inspired, so immersed, that he loses track of time. Blotches of colours turn into something clearer, more outlined, naturalistic. Yuta goes with the flow, doesn’t know what he’s painting, but finally he’s doing it. After so many years. A small voice in the back of Yuta’s mind wishes he never stopped.

The doorbell rings at half past nine. Yuta, covered in paint stains on his clothes, face and disheveled hair, hurriedly opens the door to Sicheng, holding up a bottle of expensive French wine. “What’s the occasion?” he questions, out of breath. The model combs his messy hair back into place.

“Your first painting.” Sicheng smiles. 

 

-

 

“It’s by far not my first painting though.” Yuta corrects, taking small sips from the glass, properly tasting the wine.

“But it somewhat is. When did you stop painting?” 

Sicheng swirls the liquid in his own glass, but he’s not quite looking at it. 

“A couple of years ago.”

“I hope you won’t stop anymore.”

“We’ll see,” Yuta admits, “with your motivation skills I could even fly to the moon.”

Sicheng grins. “Can I see what you painted?”

“Yeah,” Yuta gets up from the couch and helps the model up too, leading him to his room across the hall. Yuta’s workplace is super messy, tubes of paint are scattered on the floor accompanied by colourful pain stains. “Just a heads up, a hurricane went through my room,” he warns, a bit embarrassed. Sicheng doesn’t mind though, instead he takes Yuta’s hand in his. 

Inevitably, Yuta becomes self-conscious. He’s scared of Sicheng’s reaction, he’s scared whether the model would like the painting or not since he hasn’t drawn in years. He wonders when the stranger-turned-friend’s opinion has started to matter to him so much. Beads of sweat form on his forehead and palms, and Sicheng senses it, squeezing Yuta’s hand in reassurance. “Don’t be worried,” he whispers softly. That doesn’t calm Yuta’s storm not even by one bit. 

Yuta expected many things as a reaction. But not quite this. Sicheng stares at his painting, a simple painting, with so much awe and admiration, with stars in his eyes, and Yuta involuntarily flushes. 

It’s an urban landscape. Of shades of greys on greys, of the city during cloudy weather, accompanied by light round raindrops and nearer to the bottom, right on the ground one’s eyes would focus of the brightest of the red fallen leaves by the nearby tree. The deep, burgundy, magenta shades of red stand out massively out of the background. The streets in the painting are filled with black and brown umbrellas from the busy humans, and the fact that all that is drawn from the perspective as if it was a scene out of a window is the cherry on top. Despite the mostly monotonous pallets of colours the piece of work looks lively, dynamic, real. Funnily enough, it’s the view from the café. 

“It’s beautiful.” Sicheng gapes. “Yuta, you’re absolutely amazing! And you told me you were rusty!” The model picks Yuta up and spins him around in excitement, leaving the latter flustered and breathless. “I’m so proud of you!” Sicheng’s words hold so much sincerity in them and Yuta thinks that maybe, just maybe, starting to paint isn’t that bad of an idea after all.

“Th-thank you.” Yuta regains his composure. He smiles wide. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

 

-

 

“Can you tell me about your muse?” Sicheng asks one night, sitting on Yuta’s coffee table, which the latter doesn’t approve of. The model makes a regular appearance in Yuta’s apartment, almost as if they’re roommates.

“They were someone important to me. They made me see the world in better, newer colours.”

The model nods in understanding. “Do you miss them?” 

“Sometimes.” Yuta thinks carefully. “Only sometimes. They left me on my most important day, without a single word.” Sicheng frowns and Yuta continues, “Oh well, it’s been years.”

“Are you mad at them?” 

“I was at first. I was so mad. I told them to forget me, to pretend as if we don’t know each other, but now I understand their decision. I guess love really does blind you.”

They leave it at that.

 

-

 

Seasons change in the blink of an eye, and soon the ground is painted white all over. Just as fast as time flows, Sicheng somehow made his way into Yuta’s life, leaving a huge mark in it. The artist’s previously gloomy mundane days now sparkles with the light that is Sicheng himself. In mere months the model became his friend, his biggest source of inspiration, his little energiser. 

Yuta hasn’t painted anything grand ever since, but the fire within him is growing. 

In the middle of December Sicheng invited Yuta to go to Milan fashion week with him. Of course, the artist was set on refusing such a proposal, but Sicheng insisted, and Yuta couldn’t resist his puppy eyes. And so with a backpack full of pencils, markers, watercolours and a sketchbook the pair was off. 

Yuta falls in love with Milan. With its rich architecture, cathedrals, churches, with its peaceful winter nights, with how Sicheng looks so in his element.

“Have you been to Milan before?” Yuta asks the evening before Sicheng’s show. The pair is walking through the main streets that are already decorated with Christmas lights and soaked in festive spirit. Simple to say, the atmosphere is magical. Yuta goes wherever Sicheng leads him, taking photos of anything and everything, even sneaking in a few candid pics of the model when he thinks the latter isn’t looking. 

“I’ve lived here since I started my modelling career.”

“I see,” is all Yuta can say. “What made you return to Seoul?”

“Milan is nice, it’s lovely, but it never became my home. Someone important to me was in Korea, someone I’ve left behind to come here to achieve happiness. But I never truly did.” Yuta hums in acknowledgement. “I got offered a job in Seoul and I took the chance right away. I don’t regret it one bit.” Sicheng gives Yuta a look, smirking slightly and Yuta notices how pretty snowflakes swirl and fall onto the taller man’s soft hair and long eyelashes, and as the model’s hand smoothly reaches for his, interlacing their fingers hesitantly, as if asking for permission (Yuta doesn’t protest), the artist’s heart involuntarily does a flip. 

When Sicheng reluctantly leaves for rehearsals Yuta explores the city, spends his time painting masterpieces of architecture and interiors, and when he sits by the podium and watches the model walk with so much grace and and elegance, eyes sharp, glimmering with gold glittery eyeshadow, and expression professional, he thinks no masterpiece can ever compare to the art that is Sicheng.

Christmas is spent by each other’s sides, and on New Years Yuta leaves for Japan. “What do you want as a gift?” 

“Draw me something.”

“Really? That’s all?” 

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” And so he paints Milan.

 

-

 

One windy March afternoon Sicheng barges into Yuta’s apartment without any warning. “You have to finish painting this,” is the first thing he says, nearly smacking the large canvas into Yuta’s arms. It’s the portrait of the faceless man. Yuta takes a look at it, then blinks. 

“Did you steal that?” 

“What? No, I bought it.” 

“Just how many paintings of mine have you bought?”

“More than you can imagine.” 

“Wow, ok,” Yuta puts the canvas down vertically on the floor, leaning it into the sofa. “You know I always compete your requests but this is a no can do.”

Sicheng pouts. “Yuta, please, it’s so beautiful already, imagine if it were to be complete.” 

Yuta sternly shakes his head, mouthing a no.

“I’m begging you,” Sicheng clasps his hands over Yuta’s, shaking them a bit too harshly, reminding the artist a bit of the behaviour of a child. Then again, something about Sicheng was naïve and childlike, and it was a rare sight, and a side to his personality that Yuta wanted to protect. 

“I’ll take you out for dinner.”

“Is that your way of you asking me out?”

“Well, if your standards are takeout and dinners,” Sicheng’s slight smirk doesn’t falter, “then we’ve been going out for a while now.”

Yuta’s melodious laugh resonates throughout the room. “Okay, I’ll consider it.”

 

-

 

When Sicheng leaves for America for an entire month Yuta barely has any time to paint. He’s swarmed with hectic calls and grumpy clients, and the absence of the model makes his life a little bit greyer, but regular “Good morning” and “Goodnight” texts make up for the empty feeling within Yuta’s chest. 

April rolls around the corner, Sicheng sends him pictures of Manhattan and Brooklyn, and in return Yuta sends photos of the already bloomed cherry blossoms. _“I wish I was there to see them bloom with you,”_ Sicheng messages, and Yuta’s heart skips a beat. 

At the end of the month, when the grass wakes up from its slumber, when the bare trees slowly put on their green coats, when the sun rises earlier and the days are longer, the pair is finally reunited. Yuta never realised how much he’s truly missed having Sicheng by his side most of the time until they got separated, and the model felt the same way. 

One warm evening Sicheng took out the artist to a luxurious restaurant on the roof a very prestigious hotel, saying he has good news. Yuta was skeptical, but nonetheless put effort into his appearance, and it wasn’t to waste. Sicheng’s eyes were glued to him for the whole night, the blush on Yuta’s cheeks only reddened. “So,” the artist begins, when they’re on their main course, “what did you want to tell me?”

“Okay, yeah,” Sicheng puts his utensils down. “While I was in New York I met an old friend of mine, he organises events, and I told him about you and your works.”

Yuta lifts his eyebrows, “And?”

“He would like to organise an exhibition for your works. With your permission, of course.”

Yuta nearly chokes on his overpriced medium rare lamb. “Excuse me?” Hi eyes are as wide as saucers and his hands are trembling slightly. 

“Say yes, Yuta,” Sicheng grins, eyes hopeful. “It’s an amazing opportunity.” 

“You really think so?” He really wants to say no.

“Without a doubt! You shouldn’t conceal your work. Art is meant to be seen.”

Yuta falters, “I, uh, I’m not sure. Do you really think I can do it?”

“Yes!” the model puts his hand over Yuta’s, it’s a familiar, comforting gesture, and the artist swells on Sicheng’s words. After a while of silence between them he nods, albeit a bit weakly, “Okay, Ill think about it.”

 

They focus back on eating, but Yuta speaks up, “Wait,” making the model look up from his plate.

“What’s wrong?”

“I painted like, only two paintings so far. That’s, uh, not enough to display.”

“Who says there are going to be two paintings? I’ve bought practically the whole art store of your masterpieces.” Sicheng boasts, making Yuta drop his jaw. 

“You what?”

“You heard me,” the model focuses back onto detaching his oyster from its shell, “the quantity isn’t a problem.”

“That’s amazing, Sicheng, I don’t know if I should thank you or scold you though,” Yuta laughs, “but alright, okay, I can do it.”

 

-

 

“I can’t do it.” Yuta speaks into his phone with Sicheng at the end of the line. He’s visibly shaking, taking in deep, ragged breaths, and model can sense it. 

_“Yuta, breathe in and out. I’ll be there soon, okay? Tell me what’s wrong.”_

“Nothing’s coming out how I want it to. Painting is supposed to be relaxing, right? Well I’m so fucking stressed. The exhibition is in a week, I need to paint one more piece and I still haven't overcome my artist’s block. Everything looks like trash to me, no one is going to come to the gallery, I can’t-”

 _“Yuta, calm down.”_ Sicheng’s deep voice cuts him off. _“Everything is going to be okay, you’re overthinking it.”_ Before Yuta can protest, someone barges into his room. It’s Sicheng. He’s out of breath and it’s evident that he rushed here, and the artist feels really bad, but then he asks weakly, “How’d you get here?”

“Spare key.” Sicheng takes long strides in Yuta’s direction, cups his cheeks with his warm hands and speaks softly. “Calm down, everything will be okay.” He strokes Yuta’s cheekbones lightly with his thumbs and Yuta relaxes a bit, but he’s still tense. Sicheng leans down to press a chaste kiss to the artist’s forehead, making Yuta smile. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

It’s evening by the time Sicheng forces Yuta to come out of his safe haven. The sun is retreating for the night, and the rainy air refreshes Yuta’s mind. They walk by the promenade, as the blue sky turns into pinks and purples, with the water reflecting all of the colours, doubling the magical atmosphere. The cotton candy clouds are highlighted with yellow, and it’s such a beautiful, magical sight, that Yuta’s clouded mind is cleared and he’s is once again inspired. His art block dissipates. Sicheng not-so-subtly sneaks his hand into Yuta’s along the way, and the latter shakes them back and forth.

At some point, when the sun is residing on the horizon and the city is illuminated in gold, Yuta turns his attention away from the scenery and focuses it on Sicheng instead, who’s glowing in bronze, whose eyes are as brown as pools of honey, and then Sicheng looks back at him with a warm expression and a soft smile, making Yuta’s heartbeat speed up, enchanting him. 

“You’re beautiful.” He whispers. 

“Have you seen yourself?” Sicheng laughs, “You say you draw pretty things, but you never draw yourself.”

Yuta doesn’t sleep that night. Instead, he paints. He paints until dawn, splashing colours left and right, making an organised mess, until he’s satisfied, until he’s proud of his work. Until Sicheng calls him and scolds him for not getting enough rest, but the bite in his voice isn’t harsh. Yuta can tell Sicheng is proud. 

The new painting is hidden in Yuta’s closet, further away from Sicheng. The latter is a bit upset he can’t see it, but Yuta reassures him, tells him it’s a surprise for the exhibition. Sicheng is relived Yuta decided against calling it off. 

“Will you come? To the opening?” Yuta eyes are hopeful but his voice is unsure. 

“Of course.”

 

-

 

The exhibition opens in the first week of June. Yuta’s patience, tears, and his whole soul went into perfecting what he can, arranging his painting by emotion, colours and experience. Finally, when the doors open and people flood inside, the artist is actually overwhelmed. Turns out Sicheng displayed his art on various social media and websites, and he obviously got a lot of exposure, which Yuta is eternally grateful for. For motivating him and helping him realize his lost love for art, for being there for him in general. 

The exhibition is in full swing. The strong scent of oil and polished wood mixed with the aroma of champagne filled the rooms inside and out. Yuta was making small talk with investors and auctioneers, explaining his thoughts and emotions behind each painting. A while later, someone taps his on the shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me,” Yuta apologizes, bowing, and turns towards the intruder. 

Sicheng extends his hand and Yuta takes it. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he says. He’s a bit out of breath, but looks gorgeous nonetheless, dressed in a formal suit with his dark brown hair slicked back. A wave of warmness takes over Yuta, all triggered by Sicheng’s long awaited appearance. “It’s alright.”

The model hasn’t been to any of the preparations, even though he’s seen most of the works, Sicheng still compliments them, and Yuta dwells in them. Lets himself be appreciated. Though most of the time the model stares at the paintings in silence, barely acknowledging Yuta’s presence, but the hand interlaced with his gets squeezed ever so often, and it conveys more than words ever could have. 

“I have something for you,” Yuta says after a while, breaking Sicheng out of his trance. He pulls out his small sketchbook, “Here, you deserve to see it.” 

“Right now?” The model us taken by surprise, holds in carefully in his hands, eager but hesitant to open it. 

“Yeah. If you want, of course.”

Sicheng moves closer to the wall, and flips through the sketchbook. Yuta watches his expression morph from excitement to something more laidback. “Most of these are all of me.” He says quietly, shyly. His cheeks are tinted with blossoming red. “When did you have the time to do that?” 

“Please,” the artist waves the statement off, “we’re practically glued to each other.” He then pauses. “Do you like them?”

“I love them.”

“I’m glad! But that’s not it, I have something else for you,” Yuta announces bashfully.

“Isn’t today full of surprises.” Sicheng retorts. 

“I know, right? Anyways, I hope you’ll like it.” Yuta leads the model to a separate room, away from the spectators. It’s dark, only the middle of it is lit up by while lights from the ceiling. In addition, there only a few paintings, accompanying the biggest one right in the centre of the wall. It’s the portrait of the previously faceless man, but now it’s complete. 

“Your muse…” Sicheng gapes. “Yuta, this is… beautiful.” There are stars, galaxies, in the model’s eyes, and the way he speaks is full of fondness, he’s flabbergasted, but his expression is a bit solemn, sad. 

Sicheng’s painted piercing gaze stares into the distance, his expression is serious and professional, resembling the one he runs on during catwalks. The details in his hair, skin, clothes, everything is hyper realistic, yet you can see visible paint stokes. Warm, pastel colours of yellow, pink and purple tint his features, the same colours from the unforgettable sunset. 

“This doesn’t do you justice,” the artist admits.

Sicheng turns to him after what seems to be an eternity, eyes watery, tone laced with regret. “I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Yuta comforts him. 

“I’m so sorry I left so suddenly,” the model continues, “you knew how much this meant to me, and you supported me, and yet I still treated you like this... I regret it so much,” Sicheng blinks unshed tears away. 

“Shhh.” Yuta wipes the model’s pearls away from his eyes. “It’s okay, i’m not mad, right? What matters is that you’re here now.”

“I could’ve been here that day too.” 

“What’s done is done. We’ve both grown.”

“Yeah,” Sicheng nods. His eyes are a bit red, but he still manages to look pretty. 

“Besides, there’s no need for us to pretend anymore, right?” And the model inaudibly gasps.

“Does that mean you forgive me?”

Yuta smiles, warm. “I did. The moment you bought my painting of the cherry blossoms.” 

“Uh,” Sicheng stutters, “Is this okay?” Yuta nods, despite not knowing what the model was implying.  
Sicheng snakes an arm around Yuta’s waist and pulls him closer, and rests his head on the artist’s shoulder. The angle is a bit awkward, but he makes it work. “I really missed you,” Sicheng sighs out, nuzzling into Yuta’s neck. The latter hums, tilting his head onto Sicheng’s. “Me too.” He plays with the model’s neatly styled hair. 

“I really loved you, you know.”

“Past tense?” the model turns him around with a teasing smirk, confident in the artist’s answer. His gaze flickers for a fraction of a second to Yuta’s lips and the latter catches him. 

“I still do.” Yuta breathes out, barely like a whisper, and that’s all that takes for Sicheng to close the gap between their lips. 

“I do too.” Sicheng whispers back after breaking the kiss, and the fire within Yuta rekindled completely. It’s burning with the same intensity as his heart, bright and hot, awakening another emotion. Love.

 

-

 

Midnight. The time, when the September air is much colder, but there are still traces of summer left, when the usually hectic streets are a bit emptier, but this time they’re just as busy as during the day, when one usually would feel a bit lonelier. Yuta walks around with an aim, hands in his pockets and eyes ahead, on the route towards the art shop.

Yuta stares at the paintings through the stained window for a moment or two. He smiles softly upon hearing an all too familiar, deep voice that Yuta calls home. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Yuta glances at the man in the brown trench coat, “they are.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading uwu this is my first piece on ao3 look at me go hgdjdj  
> find me on twitter


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